


For Our Children’s Children’s Children

by jilly-chan (slightlyjillian)



Series: Tourniquet [2]
Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-24
Updated: 2010-01-24
Packaged: 2017-10-06 16:09:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slightlyjillian/pseuds/jilly-chan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pre-Series. Sally Po has a character defining moment all under the watchful eyes of someone unexpected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Our Children’s Children’s Children

**Author's Note:**

> written in March of 2004 for the _Before the Beginning Challenge_. Stand-alone, but works as a prequel for _Tourniquet_.

In blonde pig-tails, she always sat a little apart from the others, but watching them. Her blue eyes were noticeably slanted not unlike the Orientals in the picture book that she was so fond of. She'd spend the entirety of her break time from the elementary studies with her nose in the pages of that book. Now and again, while turning a page, she'd glance across the way at one of her classmates who couldn't bother to sit still.

The class that year was a combination of children from the ages of five to eight; almost colonial in nature, a bittersweet irony given the advances in technology that had brought humanity so far past the days of covered wagons and sent them into outer space. Teachers were in short supply, and circumstances were putting smaller countries in situations of compromising their very ways of life in order to stay compliant with Federation regulations. Even the Sank Kingdom gave slim hope to realists: realists such as the instructor of those students, in that year, and during one class—such as myself.

Her name was Sally Po, and she was a talented little girl. She finished her worksheets before the others, even those older than herself. Excelling in science and mathematics, I was hard pressed to find enough words to praise her academic accomplishments in the ridiculous number of evaluations that I sent home to her parents. I hadn't personally met her parents, most social functions being cut from the school budget. In truth, the school budget itself no longer existed except in theory, all income that could be taxed was going to projects deemed more important by the local government. And they probably were more important, I liked to think of the situation as adding mystery to the mischief. Juggling four grade levels required military discipline, something that Sally Po comprehended even if her classmates did not.

But, she was not beyond feeling pain.

I found her crouched in the gravel by the teeter-totters in the back playground. One leg bent upward so that she could wrap her arms around it and hide her face inside. The other leg was tucked underneath her, covered in dirt and reddening around her knee. Her skirt was doing little to keep her decent and I bent forward to try and console the child.

"Hush now, Sally Po," Her name almost seemed as a term of endearment, and I relaxed as her shoulders reduced their shaking to a tremble. Like a worn out beast too beaten to resist the unrecognizable comfort offered by the animal trainer. I knew how to respond to children, reasoning only could go so far.

The sun had been shining that day. Brilliant and natural, unlike the imitations I'd witnessed during my one field-trip to a colony. It was a good day to walk home from school in the company of friends. While unaware of the universal hush of terror, they might laugh and joke. But how easily the jokes of children intermingled with cruelty. I did not need to know the specifics. And she didn't seem inclined to share them. Sally did not look up until her eyes were dry, raw-edged with too many salt-laced tears. Her lips and nose were chafed red and I offered her the handkerchief in my front skirt pocket.

She shook her head, and, standing, pulled her skirt back to appropriately rest around her waist and dusted off the floral print front of her button-down shirt. One of her tails had been pulled out of shape, and I reached out to fix her hair more properly. This she did not resist.

As I combed with my fingers through the unloosed half of her child-silk textured hair, I saw her profile relax and her lips soften until they were almost open, held together by a touch of dryness until her tongue slipped loose to moisten them. Her eyes slipped closed, and her simple trust held her in place even after I had finished correcting both sides.

"My mother," She started, but then opened her eyes, looking at me from the angled corners, "My mother is coming home soon." And she bent over to gather her bag, pushing a few papers that had almost escaped around the partially opened zipper.

Sally carefully put her backpack over each of her shoulders, as deliberately as only well-mannered children consider their movements. I have seen reckless, self-centered, selfish and blissfully ignorant children prepare themselves with the passionate delirium of being set free from their daily cage. Sally had almost a small adult's resolve. I hurt for how times had changed from when I wore my hair in pigtails.

~*~

Sally did not come back to class, and after two weeks, I mentioned something to the woman who volunteered a few hours of her time to manage some of the secretarial work. Since I liked to live in relative solitude, she was the closest link I had to general gossip. It was not unusual for children to miss school. Those that came regularly were rare. A few families had pulled out of the political arena, fled and most likely changed their names. Those who stayed were made of more steadfast material, but still threats of violence occasionally kept families together and a teacher such as myself could only hope that time was well used.

"Sally Po?" She shook her head until the golden curls buzzed like a disturbed hive of bees, "I wouldn't expect to see her back in school any time soon. They're grieving."

"Grieving?" I probed, making my hands move papers and appear to be helping her with her work while straining for any information available.

"The hospitals, you see, are understaffed. Not unlike the schools," Her pink-lipstick grin turned wry and her characteristic good-humor vanished, "Sally's mother died two weeks ago Friday. I heard the last electricity outages caused her life support to flicker in and out for over thirty-six hours. Even though the power crews finally got the hospital generator functioning, no one on staff could restore her health, and she finally . . ." She gave me a look, demanding I understand her without making her say the words.

I went into teaching with an ideal that I could shape lives. Education was the surest weapon against injustice and all other evil. Learning stretched into a legacy for our children's children's children. I didn't expect the long afternoons of waking up, not realizing I'd fallen asleep prematurely, I'd been so weary. Of waking up, only to sleep, and to wake again but not rested. Children were supposed to be my way of touching the world, truly leaving a worthwhile legacy, and at some point, I had started to let circumstances erode the dream. The following weekend slipped from my consciousness with a shallow slumbering, with visions of sterile rooms and sheets that felt coarse against my skin.

That Monday, Sally was in her seat before I opened the door to my room. I noticed her hair was plaited down in twin braids. Her hands were folded in front of her and her bag balanced against the front metal legs of her desk.

She wasn't alone. A man stood in front of the class bulletin board, currently with pinned artwork from their latest attempts with watercolor. He was wearing grey dress slacks and a simple button down shirt. I knew then that he'd been responsible for dressing his little girl for some time during his wife's long absence. She came to school dressed up in the fashions of an adoring father.

He spoke immediately upon noticing me, "You must be Miss Winner? I've wondered if you're any relation . . ."

"To the pacifist family?" I smiled, but the internal cringe of being connected made my fingers tremble and the books I set on my desk slid off each other and onto the floor with the noises of torn, crumpled pages. Awkwardly, I knelt to pick them up, "I grew up on Earth. The only connection I have to my father is a small allowance." Those who asked were only curious about the financial advantage of being the fifth daughter of the wealthiest man of the colonies. The second question was always, "How many of you are there?"

Instead, I looked across to see a small, wistful and distant smile. His sandy hair was recently trimmed and the exaggerated shortness made him seem boyish. And even more apologetic, "I meant no harm. Please look after Sally for me. I'll try to bring her to school more regularly." He left after a simple, but formal, bow.

I felt sadness and weak jealousy echoing around in my ears not unlike having them half-covered by seashells. Then I turned to my student, "I'm glad to see you, Sally."

"I'm glad to see you, ma'am." She smiled tentatively, one hand absently twisting the end of her braid. Her father must have liked to put her hair up, taking time each morning to brush out the tangles of her dream-filled sleep and put each decorative band in its place.

"We're going to learn a lot of things today," The books were stacked properly again. I wiped my clammy palms against the fabric over my hips.

"Yes, ma'am. And can I," She began so eagerly, that the pause came like a painful hiccup. She pondered her words then continued, "Can I learn to be a doctor?"

I couldn't wonder, because in that moment, I knew. I saw a vision of a woman in twin braids bending over a fallen man and binding his wounds. Only his wounds were no longer physical, and her hands seemed to be able to knit his very soul back together. His eyes followed her hands, dark and slanted.

"Yes, Sally," I leaned heavily against my desk, but fixed my eyes on hers, "You can learn to be a doctor."


End file.
